Somewhere my love is in the hot Sahara;
Somewhere my love is brewing green tea. ©
Does the phrase “my love” give me some authority?
Doest it mean that I have the right to claim you and think of you as my own?
Does it have the right to make my heart calmer when I call you that, even if it’s just in my mind?
My love? You are, and although by the rules it means nothing, you still are, and thus there’s a tie between us.
Even as you struggle against my chest and shove your elbows in my ribs – you are, indeed, my only love, and that defeats you.
I play around with the expression, roll it around my head for a while, and somehow it is making me confident and tranquil. You’ll stay that even on someone’s lap and you’ll stay that while somebody’s lips would reach for your neck, and you’ll still be it in the middle of a fling. The world subsides to a small ball clutched by my knuckles when I call you that – a ball on which I know you are balancing carefully.
The fact is, I’m in love with you, and that is a faint silver string that tethers me to you and leaves my face cold and reserved when somebody is touching my hair. “I’m sorry,” I say in a polite tone, “But I’m in love with somebody else.”
I help you out of the cab, my hands under your armpits as you sway and continue your monologue, a chuckle and a sigh here and there. You are light and hard to hold on to, and I smile faintly – My love, I think, is small and shabby, he can be easily hauled onto a lap and kept there for an indefinite amount of time. You are oblivious, of course, and your feet kick the pavement as you lean back against my chest, my hands still holding you, and you throw your head backward and look at me. “H’llo,” you say, smiling and I see your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip. “Hello.”
I know that I possess much more knowledge about you than anybody else, however it doesn’t mean that I know all. A strange bloke you met in the pub and that then spend the night in your apartment might’ve heard something I’ve never realized, although we’ve known each other for years. I always wonder if it is your goal or it just happens that no person can collect the entire set of your mind. I sometimes hear details about you (my ears perked up) from people whose faces have blurred into one. It also seems that as you realize that I start to understand you more and more, you close up on me, afraid to become dependent.
But you are defeated already.
“To Jonny!” you raise your glass and find my eyes in the crowd, “Who has known me for God-knows-how-along…and who’s…seen it all,” you say and break the eye contact when the cheering starts, drowning your glass and then breaking it against the floor.
I watch as someone talks to you and by your expression see that you are uncomfortable – your fingers scratch your neck and you look down, you tap your foot and then look at me briefly. Then your face is turned by the chin away from me and that is the last drop – you break away quickly and make your way among the bodies toward me, climbing on the sofa and pushing your face against my thigh.
Are you mine?
In the dark cab, the small dots of street lights running along the dark windows, your head on my shoulder – you are mine.
On a sofa in the corner, your arm wrapped around my stomach, your eyes closed and hair tickling my skin – you are mine.
Hugging me backstage, your sweat soaking through my shirt and your salty lips almost touching me – you are mine.
I see those moments mushrooming, looming over you, ready to pounce and swallow you whole. Their shadows are in your eyes.
So I sit back and wait, and squeeze the ball tighter in my fingers.
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Cheesy, eh? :)
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